Saturday, April 9, 2005

Upside down, the brown chair appears to sit on me, leaning comfortably against my elbow and back, and hanging onto the ceiling by four clawed hands. I used to believe that the world was meant to be viewed right side up, but I’ve become a nonconformist. I sit upside down and wait for the world to take me by storm. Nobody rides in on chariots to claim me.

Clouds roll over the sky, paralleling my thoughts of rain. Whoever stole the sun should return it and apologize. I don’t mind thieves, as long as they realize their mistake and return the pilfered item. I had hoped for answers and nothing found me. Perhaps I was hiding when they looked. I do that, hide at times when I don’t want the answer because it might embarrass me.

Looking beyond my words to the meaning and then thinking about the meaning is what’s keeping me from writing well. I spew initial thoughts out there, but I’m afraid to reexamine them, analyzing them for more than just pleasing musings, but meaningful and in-depth analysis that will bring me closer to truths.

I know I’ll be sick to my stomach this evening, too much concentrated caffeine in too short a period. But for now, I will abuse the power of that most spectacular of herbs and try to force something out without thought. Thought has kept me away from reaching parts of myself. I’m typing as fast as I can and hoping to break through the barriers by not thinking and analyzing and discovering parts of myself that are hidden in closets and under beds.

“Why do you have so many fears?” she asked. I think she was interested in the answer but I wasn’t interested in the question.

“I don’t fear many things.”

“What about heights and thinking and feeling? Those sound like fears to me.”

“They aren’t fears—they don’t stop me from doing things. I climbed all the highest churches in Europe. And I write, which forces me to think and feel. What else do you want from me?”

“I don’t want anything from you.” She lied. Everyone wants something from me, and she’s no exception.